


Red Plus Blue Makes Purple

by NaughtySammyBoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring!Sam, College AU, Derogatory Language, F/M, Feels, I mean . . . there are a lot of feels, Smut, protective!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtySammyBoy/pseuds/NaughtySammyBoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your art professor suggests you join Art Club at the college you're attending, months after a scandal breaks that you slept with a male professor, part of you isn't sure. In comes Sam, a guy you've never met before. Sam ends up changing everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Plus Blue Makes Purple

**Author's Note:**

> The general idea for this came to me in a dream. I'm not joking. Once I started writing it, it started flowin' out of me like lava (two points to the person who correctly guesses where I got that reference from!) So, here you have it; a nearly sixteen thousand word, single chaptered story about Sam.
> 
> Also, here are the songs I had on replay while writing this. I honestly suggest listening to a few of them while you read, just to _really _get in the feels. I'm sure they're available on YouTube (for free!):__
> 
>   __  
>  __ **Parachute** —She Is Love / **Adele** —When We Were Young / **Etta James** —At Last / **Colbie Caillat** —Try / **Sara Bareilles** —Gravity / **Ray Charles** —Georgia On My Mind / **Israel** —Somewhere Over the Rainbow / **Ed Sheeran** —Photograph / **Jack Johnson** —Better Together / **Adele** —One and Only / **Louis Armstrong** —La Vie En Rose / **Christina Perri** —A Thousand Years (Part 2) / **Otis Blue** —My Girl / **Sam Smith** —How Will I Know / **Street Corner Symphony** —Everything / **Christina Perri** —Arms / **OneRepublic** —Stop And Stare / **Bing Crosby** —Dream A Little Dream Of Me / **Fred Astaire** —The Way You Look Tonight / **Alex & Sierra**—Little Do You Know  
> 

"I heard she's pregnant."

 

"My friend Misty heard from the Delta Phi girls that she slept with Professor Wilkins, too."

 

"Brandon told me he saw her leaving Professor Atkins office with her skirt on backwards!"

 

There were new ones everyday—new rumors being shuffled around from student to student all across campus. You'd heard just about all of them, could hear the whispers and the giggles as you walked by a group of girls. You could feel the eyes on you, a few glares of disgust here and a few suggestive glances there. You'd become accustomed to ignoring them and tuning everyone out, just wanting to get to your next class without having an emotional breakdown—but even there, people would sneak a look back at you in the last row with your head down in a book and whisper to the person next to them.

 

After the fifty minute lecture, you quickly pack up and head for the door. "Y/N, can I see you for a moment?" You hear Professor Powell call out right as you reach the open door. You sigh, immediately hearing the immature chatter of your fellow classmates as you turn to Professor Powell's desk and walk towards her, dragging your feet as you look down at the ground. "Everyone out!" She snaps unabashedly at the students lingering by the door, their eyes on you in the hopes to eavesdrop on your conversation, in the hopes to fuel the next rumor.

 

Professor Powell has a friendly smile on her face when you look up at her. She's your favorite professor, and has been since freshman year when you took art appreciation with her.

 

"How are you doin' today?" She asks in a gentle, warm voice. All you can manage is a half-hearted shrug, a pitiable look of defeat settling on your face. "Well, I was wondering if you'd like to join Art Club," she smiles, "It's not a group thing, I promise. You'll be partnered up with another member, you'll meet on Mondays and Wednesdays to discuss pieces and work on a few of your own, and you'll get credited for the hours you put in. It'll look good on your transcript."

 

You smile solemnly at the last part. "Kinda like sleeping with a professor?" You joke, sounding a bit more on edge than you had planned. "Listen, I appreciate the concern, Michele, but I'm just . . . not feeling up to joining right now," you tell her, uncontrollable emotion evident in your voice.

 

Michele gives you a sympathetic smile. "I know it's sort of dark for you right now, Y/N, and that's why I think you should think about it. I won't just partner you off with some prick who's going to giggle and treat you like you're a zoo exhibit, I'll make sure to find someone who treats you like a person instead of a scandal," she assures you, watching you nod and look down at the floor. "Just think about it for as long as you need to, I'll be here if you decide to join."

 

After the conversation ends, you make a beeline for your dorm, the idea of climbing into bed and hiding under the covers for the rest of your life sounding like the best idea ever. You hear more laughs and remarks along the way, the inevitable scorn of students with the ammo to kill any happiness you may had been feeling—which wasn't much at all to begin with. Your phone dinging distracts you, a new email showing up on your screen once you pull it out of your pocket.

 

**__**

**_Attention all Art Club members!_**

****

**__**

**_Don't forget there is a meeting today at 2:00 PM in the Rauch Art Center, room 205. I hope to see you all there!_**

****

**__**

**_From your fellow art enthusiast,_**

**__**

**_Professor Powell_**

 

You smile just a bit as you read it, knowing that Michele must have added you to the Art Club email list right after talking to you. She was a persistent one, you'll give her that. 

 

When 1:45 rolls around, you're chewing on your thumbnail and pacing around your room, huffing and shaking your head as you grab your jacket and retreat from your hiding place. You make it to the Rauch Building without incident, opting to take the long way and the pathways no one really bothers to notice. Michele is ecstatic to see you walk through the door, her smile bright and her eyes filled with nothing but admiration for you. She tells you take a front row seat, where there are only three other people sitting.

 

"No one really comes to the group meetings," Michele chuckles. She goes on to talk about the fundraiser she's hosting to help raise money for the arts and the new pieces she'll be putting on exhibit within the next few weeks, her excitement about it all evident in her voice and hand movements. You enjoy watching her, even laughing when she makes a joke or says something off the wall.

 

After the meeting is over, she asks to speak with you. "I've found the perfect partner for you," she gushes, "I want you to meet with him tomorrow after class in the library. There's a backroom reserved for the arts that Sam likes to use, I think you'll enjoy working with him."

 

"What's he like?" You ask, a little bit nervous to meet with a complete stranger—especially given your current situation.

 

Michele scoffs playfully. "Now where's the fun in _telling_ you?" She smiles, "Just trust me on this, Y/N, he'll be nothing short of a gentleman."

 

You take Michele's word for it, smiling as you leave the Rauch building, quickly making it back to your dorm room to make yourself some lunch and catch up on some school work. There's still a part of you that's undeniably apprehensive to meet this Sam guy. Who was he? What year was he? Would he force a smile and pretend he didn't hear the rumors?

 

Question after question formed in your head right up until the time you let your eyes fall shut that night, willing yourself to sleep—thankfully not crying like you had for the last few months. The next day moved quite quickly, your smothered excitement making it impossible for you to fully focus during any of your classes, and for the first time in _weeks_ , you don't even notice the stares or the snickers from those around you.

 

Walking into the library, however, you suddenly feel like turning back around and running as fast as possible. The low, steady hum of hushed chatter and the incessant typing of keyboards at the computers to your right fill your ears, a weight hanging in your chest as you walk towards the very back of the library, away from the people and into a more quiet section. When you see the door you're meant to walk through, a bubble of unexplainable emotion settles in your throat, threatening to tumble from your lips in a gasp of uncertainty.

 

"It's now or never," you say under your breath as you stand before room 428, in a whisper meant to encourage yourself. You sigh and let your eyes fall shut long enough to turn the knob and push forward into the secluded space, quickly taking a look around and gently shutting the door behind you.

 

There's no one to be seen, only copies of famous painting or photographs scattered amongst the walls and on the table in the center of the room. There's a stack of blank canvases in the corner, all of different sizes and all covered in different types of material for all sorts of mediums. Books depicting art and discussing the history of it are open to random pages on the table next to an open laptop that's still on, van Gogh's _'The Starry Night' _just so happening to be the desktop background. You smile at that, because it _just so happens_ to be one of your favorites—as cheesy and predictable as that may be.__

 

"Can I help you?" A deep, unfamiliar voice comes from out of nowhere behind you, making you gasp and turn towards its source, only to find a tall and kind of lanky guy with messy chestnut hair and questioning eyes. He's holding another book in his hands, standing in the doorway of what you guess is the room's own storage closet.

 

"I um . . . I was just—" You stop to clear your throat, cheeks already burning red from embarrassment. "I'm Y/N, your new Art Club partner—I guess," you tell him, chuckling nervously. "But I'm sure you know who I am, seeing as how there's a new rumor being thrown around about me on the daily!" You try to joke, just ending up sounding sad and pathetic—especially with a pair of eyes on you that could see right through your facade.

 

The stranger regards you for a few seconds, nodding and giving you a sympathetic smile— _great, another person to feel bad for me._ "I don't much listen to rumors," he says, moving into the main portion of the room, closing the book that's in his hands and placing it on the table with the others. "I'm a law major," he tells you, "We much rather prefer the truth, and believe only what we ourselves can prove to be true using evidence and investigation." He smirks friendly enough in your direction, taking a seat and spinning to face you. "I'm Sam, but I'm sure Michele's told you that already."

 

"Uh, y-yeah, she did," you agree awkwardly. "I'm sorry if I seem like a complete mess, I uh—I'm just a bit nervous, and I haven't really . . . interacted with that many people recently—"

 

"Look," Sam smiles politely as he stops you, "In here, it'll just be about art. You don't have to feel pressured or feel like you're being put under a microscope, and you don't need to explain anything personal if you don't feel comfortable doing so."

 

Sam is being so kind, and he doesn't even know you. It's a nice change from all the snide commentary or aggressive stare downs you've been subjected to, and it causes your chest to grow tight as a warm giddy feeling forms in your tummy. "Thanks, Sam," you say, blatant appreciation in your small voice.

 

"It's no problem, really," he nods, his smile growing in size as he sees yours do the same. "Why don't we start by discussing some art, huh?" He suggests, motioning to the chair next to him to tell you nonverbally _sit down_. You do, nervously tucking the stray hairs falling from your messy ponytail behind your ears and examining Sam's profile as he flips through one of the books in front of him. "How do you feel about Frida Kahlo?" He asks you, turning his head to smile at you and to show you the page he's looking at, one of Frida's many self-portraits depicted on it.

 

"I love her work," you smile, leaning forward and running your index finger over the glossy page. "I enjoy her self-portraits the most," you tell him.

 

"Why?" He asks, genuinely intrigued and curious for your answer.

 

"Because she doesn't try to define beauty in them; she paints herself the way she sees herself in the mirror and by what she knows to be true in her heart," you smile fondly, your eyes sliding over the portrait. "She doesn't enhance her features just for the sake of those who view it, and she doesn't hide behind the standards society's telling her are acceptable."

 

Sam's eyes don't leave your face as you talk. He watches you with wonderment as you speak openly about your interpretation of the piece, and admires the way you speak so fluidly. "Do you have any other favorite pieces?" He questions you, ignoring the way his stomach flips inside him when you turn your head towards him to meet his eyes.

 

"Well," you smile and shrug, "I do like _'The Starry Night' _." You nod your head at the computer screen that's still lit up across the table. "That probably makes me such a poser to the art world, huh?" You chuckle, looking down at your lap.__

 

"It doesn't," Sam whispers, grinning widely. "Just because it's liked by many, doesn't mean it's not to be liked at all," he tells you, "It's been one of my favorites since high school, hence the desktop." He laughs lightly, his cheeks growing pinker by the second. "Why do you like it?" He asks, his eyes searching for yours until you finally look at him once again.

 

"It sort of has this child-like feeling about it, like it's a world painted straight from a child's favorite dream," you smile, "And yet, there's a maturity to it—in the brushstrokes and composition—thousands of short lines that make it looks as if it's moving if you turn too quickly to look at it. I don't know, it takes me to a different place, a place more . . . free and forgiving, like there's a world made just for me somewhere."

 

"Wow," Sam whispers after a few beats, "I've never heard it described like that before." He quickly looks down when you look at him and laughs as he adds, "Typically people just say they like the colors, or that it reminds them of ‘ _The Nightmare before Christmas_.’"

 

"Well," you chuckle, "It _does_ have a certain Jack Skellington vibe to it, maybe a place where he'd vacation." You grin like a fool when Sam laughs deeply, his gaze shifting from the table to you and then back down at his lap, his cheeks and the tips of his ears tinged pink. 

 

You spend the next few hours looking over pieces; naturalistic, impressionistic, pop-art, all kinds of art types, discussing your respective interpretations. "No interpretation is wrong, because they're unique to the way in which a piece makes you feel when you look at it," Sam had told you— _after_ you told him that Monet's ‘ _Women in the Garden’_ made you feel like putting on a crinoline and hosting a tea party, which earned you another hearty laugh.

 

"I know we only meet on Mondays and Wednesdays but," Sam starts, nervously scratching at the back of his neck as he stands by the door he'd just opened for you. "I don't have any classes on Fridays, so maybe . . . we could meet three days a week, instead of only two?"

 

"Really?" You quirk a brow, tightening your arms around to books Sam had loaned you and pushing them against your chest—it was all you could do not to jump in place and squeal like a school girl.

 

"Yeah, I mean," Sam smiles awkwardly, "Michele is going to pick a few student-made pieces to put on display next month for the annual art show, so I was thinking—maybe you'd like to work on one together? We'd need more than two days a week to do it, so that's why I suggested—"

 

"I'd love to," you say, in order to stop Sam's cute, but _totally_ secondhand-embarrassment-worthy rambling. "Work on a piece, I mean," you reiterate, "We can discuss ideas Friday, yeah?"

 

"Totally," Sam smiles, his eyes lighting up like fireworks at your agreement. "I'll uh—I'll see you Friday then," he tells you, moving out of the way to let you through the door, nervously shoving his bangs out of his face as you smile and walk past him to leave, throwing another smile over your shoulder before disappearing around a large bookshelf. "Wow," Sam says to himself, "I am _so_ screwed."

 

* * *

 

"Dude, you've _totally_ got the hots for her!" Robby, Sam's roommate, shouts after Sam fills him in on his meeting with you.

 

"Shut up, Rob," Sam grumbles, shaking his head and turning back around to face his desk, his law class homework screaming at him for procrastinating so hard. "She's just my partner for Art Club, _nothing's_ gonna happen," Sam rolls his eyes, tapping the end of his pencil against the book he loathed with all his being.

 

"Whatever you say, Sam, my boy," Robby chuckles. "Hey, I heard she can get pretty _nasty_."

 

"And where did you hear that?" Sam scoffs, "From the sorority chick you're banging?"

 

"Nah," Robby shrugs, plopping down into one the bean bags next to Sam's desk. "Timmy Smith heard it from a few of his buddies who saw her leaving the Dean's office a few weeks ago."

 

"Oh yeah, because the captain of the lacrosse team is _such_ a reliable source," Sam bites out sarcastically. "Need I remind you that he's, like, _the king_ of slipping girls roofies at frat parties? That guy should be locked away for twenty to life," Sam scoffs incredulously, shaking his head and writing out the definition of a word he doesn't care about. "And you can't just assume everything you hear is true, you don't even know Y/N. You can't base your perceptions of her on a rumor you heard from a _low-life_ like Timmy Smith," Sam turns to face Robby, obvious disgust for the jock he's speaking of.

 

"Oh, so _you_ know her?" Robby laughs.

 

"I know her a lot better than you or Timmy Smith do," Sam snaps, getting up from the desk and retrieving a beer from the mini-fridge. "It's not fair to shove her into this box because people are being malicious and foul, it's not fair to a girl you know _nothing_ about," Sam tells Robby as he twists the cap off, not even sure why he's being so protective of you—he'd only just met you less then twelve hours ago.

 

"Okay, dude, just . . . calm down," Robby's voice softens. "I just—you're my best friend, I don't want people to start attacking you for hangin' out with her."

 

"Fuck that," Sam scoffs, "I'm not gonna ditch her just because people are getting their rocks off by spreading rumors." Sam takes a hefty gulp of his beer before adding, "And she's a sweet girl, there's a lot more to her than what people are saying."

 

"Yeah, Sam, but . . . we _know_ one of the rumors is true. She _did_ sleep with Professor Lane," Robby replies, trying to make his voice as nonjudgmental as possible.

 

"So _what_ , Rob? Is she supposed to be crucified for the rest of her life because of it?" Sam asks seriously, holding his hands up in wonder.

 

"That's not what I'm sayin'," Robby sighs, running his hands down his face in exasperation. "I just think you're gettin' distracted by a pretty face," he tells Sam honestly.

 

"Oh," Sam chuckles bitterly, " _This_ coming from the guy who _failed his midterm_ because he was too busy giving Darcy Andrews 'the business' the day of."

 

"Hey!" Robby gawks. "I thought we agreed _never_ to speak of that?"

 

Sam only rolls his eyes, plopping down on his bed and turning his back to Robby, _totally_ over his roommate’s _totally_ skewed views and opinions.

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, Sam's all you can think about. You're pretty sure you don’t hear a single thing your biology professor said during your first class, due to the fact you were too absorbed in daydreaming about a certain brunette law major. The elocution of his speech was, by far, one of your favorite things about him—not to mention, his eyes were deep and inviting, his smile radiant and warm, his mouth—

 

"Miss Y/L/N," you hear your biology professor call out, rudely ripping you out of your daze. "I'm so _thrilled_ to see that you've lost yourself in my lecture, mind telling me what the four main elements of human life are?" She asks in a cocky tone, a smirk on her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest.

 

"Um—"

 

"In order of importance, please," she adds.

 

"Oxygen, carbon, h-hydrogen . . . and nitrogen?" You answer with uncertainty, unable to ignore the way your peers have turned around to look back at you with snickers on their lips, some whispering to their neighbors.

 

"Good," the professor smiles, "I hope you'll pay more attention now."

 

By the time class is over, you're the first one out the door, your cheeks still apple red and your stomach unsettled. Part of you laughs, because you got caught openly daydreaming of Sam—you could only imagine how you must have looked, chin in your hand while you stared into space with a dopey smile on your face.

 

You get through your next two classes without further incident, making sure you're not as obvious in your pathetic pining in your mind. How could you be so _in like_ with a guy you'd only just met yesterday? And why do feel like you've finally found someone who doesn't care what they've heard? Maybe he's just being nice, maybe he _does_ care about the rumors and is only putting on a brave face because Michele is forcing him to. _Oh god_ , the thought of being pitied by Sam makes you go a little green with nausea, as well as the thought of him only meeting with you to appease Michele.

 

When the time to meet Sam again on Friday morning rolls around, you are freaking out. You've somehow managed to talk yourself into dressing a little nicer and actually taking the time to brush your hair this time—instead of just throwing it up into a messy bun because you couldn't care less on any other day. You decide to stop by the Starbucks on campus to grab yourself a caramel latte and a black coffee for Sam, along with two freshly made, chocolate-swirl croissants. You tell yourself you're trying too hard, scoffing inwardly at how cheesy this is about to be.

 

Sam's got his head in a book when you enter the backroom, a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose as he sits in a leather armchair in the farthest corner. "You wear glasses?" You ask, breaking the silence, feeling a little bad when Sam nearly jumps ten feet in the air at the sudden intrusion.

 

" _God_ ," he says under his breath with a laugh as he takes the glasses off, gripping at his chest and placing his book to the side, "You almost gave me a heart attack."

 

"Sorry," you chuckle nervously, clutching the coffees and bag of baked goods in your hands. "I uh—I brought you a coffee," you tell him, "I wasn't sure how you took it so I just got you black, hope that's okay." You walk towards him, holding it out to him.

 

"That's perfect," he smiles, accepting it, his fingers brushing along yours as he grabs it sending a shiver up your spine. "Thanks," he says sweetly, pointing to the second armchair next to him, "Take a seat, we've got some idea to discuss."

 

An hour later, you're both mulling over whether a collage or a photograph would be cooler. "I personally think photography is the way to go," Sam says, "I got this _extremely_ professional camera for my birthday last year from my grandparents, and I've been dying to use for an art piece."

 

"Is photography something you like doing?" You ask him, taking a bite of your croissant.

 

"It's a hobby of mine, yeah," Sam shrugs, "When I was younger I dreamt of doing it as a career but . . . my uh, my parents didn't think it was worthy of being a life-long job." There's a hint of sadness in his voice as he divulges this piece of information to you, and it causes your stomach to sink like an anchor.

 

"Is that why you're a law major?" You question him in a soft voice, your eyes meeting his as he looks at you with an unreadable expression. "So you don't disappoint them?"

 

"You could say that, I guess," Sam shrugs again as he looks down at his lap, picking nervously at the fraying denim that's covering his thigh.

 

"I um—I'm kind of in the same boat actually," you smile sympathetically, understanding the sadness that's flashing across his face.

 

"Really?" Sam asks, looking up at you once again.

 

"Yeah, my mom doesn’t think art is a real major, so it's only my minor," you tell him, "I'm a science major."

 

"Do you like science?" Sam wonders, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, wringing his hands as he gives you a questioning glance.

 

"No," you shake your head, "Not really."

 

Sam laughs openly, letting his head hang for a second before he pulls it back up to look at you with a smile. "I hate law so much, it's not even funny," he tells you, "It's so _boring_!"

 

"Honestly! Science is cool in certain aspects, I admit, but I honestly don't see myself making a career of it," you agree, shaking your head as you laugh along with him. "My parents would lose their minds if I changed my major, though," you frown suddenly, feeling your heart swell with emotion.

 

"They wouldn't have to know," Sam shrugs, "It's _your_ life."

 

"I could say the same for you," you retort, a playful smile forming on your lips, tugging at the corners of your mouth. Sam only nods, looking down the ground and biting at his bottom lip—which is _not_ the sexiest thing you've ever seen, you _swear_.

 

* * *

 

The next Monday turns out to be one your not-so-good days. On the way back to your dorm after your first class, a group of guys started to heckle in your direction, making suggestive and snide comments that made tears prick your eyes uncontrollably. They were _ruthless_ , doing everything in their power to make you feel worthless and feel like you were nothing more than a slut. It takes everything in you to walk away without bursting into tears in front of them and quickly scurry off to your dorm room, hiding away from the world that was continuously tearing you down.

 

It had been months since you did what you did with Professor Lane, and still, even after you tried to ignore them, the people around you were tearing away at your character every chance they got, lashing out and making you feel like you had a scarlet A branded right onto the center of your forehead. It felt a never-ending train of pain and ridicule, one that was weighing on you heavier and heavier with each passing day.

 

You don't leave your room to meet with Sam when they time comes to—you were too busy crying your eyes out, burrowed underneath your blankets, trying to drown out the world outside. The incessant buzzing of your phone half an hour later doesn't stop you, you knew it was Sam. You knew he was wondering where you were, it _was_  Monday afternoon after all. You just couldn't bringing yourself to answer his calls or texts, too absorbed with feeling bad for yourself.

 

You stare at the blinded window of your room for the next twenty minutes, looking at it with blank, bloodshot eyes, watching as the light outside tries to push through the cracks. You don't know how much longer you do this, but the sound of a soft knock on your door startles you. "Y/N?" You hear, Sam's voice clear as day even through the thick wood of your door. How did he find your room?

 

You stand to your feet, quickly swiping at your damp cheeks with the back of your hands as you make your way over to the door, trying to hide and wipe away any evidence of sadness. You sigh as you turn the knob, pulling the door open slowly, revealing a concerned looking Sam who notices the puffy skin around your eyes immediately. "I um, hope you don't mind me just stopping by like this, I uh—I got worried when you didn't show for our meeting, and you weren't answering my calls . . . is everything okay?"

 

You swallow back a new batch of sobs and say, "Everything's f-fine." You try to force a smile as you add, "I just . . . didn't feel much like getting out of bed today."

 

"Y/N," Sam says in a soft voice. "What happened?"

 

You just shake your head, tears filling your eyes as you look down at your feet, unable to meet Sam's. You bring your hands up to your face to hide the fact that it's scrunching up as a series of sobs sit heavily at the back of your throat, causing it to ache and wobble. A strong pair of arms wrapping around you causes you to break down completely, crying out uncontrollably as Sam holds you close.

 

Sam can feel his chest constrict as you sob into his chest, his heart breaking when your hands reach around to fist tightly at the sweatshirt he's wearing. He turns his head to the side when he senses a presence that belongs to neither of you, noticing a group of girls staring at the two of with wide eyes and whispering to each other. "Get lost," he snaps as he glares at them. He runs a hand through your hair as he whispers, "Let's get you inside."

 

You let him guide you completely into the room, listening to the click of the door being closed behind him. "I'm such a mess," you chuckle half-heartedly through tears, shaking your head and sitting down on your bed with your face in your hands. "I don't know why, though," you say in a small voice, "It's not like this is the first time I've been made to feel like a whore."

 

"What?" Sam asks, sitting beside you, placing a hand on your back and running it up in a soothing manner.

 

"I was uh, coming back from my morning class and this group of guys were saying these _awful_ things, basically attacking me verbally," you tell him, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. You can taste the salt of them when you lick your lips, breathing out heavily. "I guess it really got to me this time."

 

"Did you tell somebody about it; your RA or a counselor?" Sam asks, anger swelling up inside behind his ribs, the need to track the guys down and rip their throats out quickly taking over.

 

"What would be the point, Sam?" You ask him in a defeated voice. "The whole campus thinks I'm just this worthless tramp who falls into bed with every professor I see, they don't care if what they say hurts me or crushes my soul—they only care about making their buddies laugh."

 

"I don't think of you like that," Sam whispers, watching the way you shake your head and turn your head away from him.

 

"He told me he liked me, Sam," you tell him in a shaky voice, "Professor Lane, I mean. He told me that I was beautiful and that he'd never felt more attracted to anyone before in his life. He filled my head with all these pickup lines and meaningless words, building me up and making me feel worthy."

 

"Y/N, you don't have to—"

 

"He made a fool out of me. After he got into my pants, he threw me aside like a piece of trash, treated me like I didn't even matter and like I was somehow _beneath_ him. Word got out about us sleeping together and the whole school knew within less than a day. I've been treated like an outcast, like some slut who's only good for sleeping with. Every girl here mocks me and every guy wants to call me names or get in my pants."

 

"That's not true," Sam whispers, his heart shattering for you.

 

"It is true, Sam," you sob, "I feel like an animal in some fucking zoo exhibit or something! Every day someone points and laughs, calls me a name and makes me feel _worthless_."

 

"You are _not_ worthless, Y/N," Sam says in a seriously stern voice, taking hold of your shoulder and turning your body towards him. "You are more than what people say about you. So what? You made a mistake, _who hasn't_? It's _not_ your fault Professor Lane is an absolute piece of _shit_ who used you for his own sick, selfish needs," Sam tells you, "You are _not_ defined by your mistakes, Y/N." 

 

You cry pathetically as Sam speaks, feeling like a fool for breaking down in front him like you were. "I wi-wish everyone could think like y-you," you trip over your words, wiping away the thick, hot tears that are falling down your face. "I almost forgot what it felt like to have a friend," you tell him in a whisper, giving him a wobbly smile as your eyes grow wetter—much to your dismay.

 

Your admission makes Sam feel _sick_. He can feel his skin crawl with hatred for the people who have broken you so deeply. He can feel his blood bubble with anger at the thought that people like Timmy Smith or Professor Lane even exist. He can feel bile burn in his throat at the thought that the world has taken your spirit and used it as its own personal punching bag, ripping away at your life and making it a never-ending joke amongst the campus.

 

"Let's get out of here," Sam says all of a sudden, quickly standing to his feet and turning to face you with hopeful eyes.

 

"What?" You question him, confused by his suggestion.

 

"I want to take you somewhere . . .  away from here," he tells you, holding out a hand to you. You take only a second to consider it, rising from the bed and taking his hand as a silent agreement, a nervous glint flashing in your eyes. "Do you trust me?" Sam whispers the question, weaving his fingers through the gaps between yours and squeezing your hand in his.

 

You'd known him less than a week; what kind of question was _that_? "Yes," you answer, nonetheless, because at this point—what have you _honestly_ got to lose?

 

"Good," he grins, tugging you towards the door and throwing it open, only stopping long enough for you to grab your jacket and a pair of shoes. He chuckles as you tug your jacket on clumsily, only releasing his hand long enough to push your arm through, and smiling when you nearly fall over as you pull your shoes on while you walk.

 

"Where are we going?" You ask him when you make it outside, letting him guide you in the direction of the student parking lot, where expensive and nice-looking cars fill it. Sam doesn't answer, only gives you a smile as he pushes his free hand into his back pocket and pulls out a set of keys. You smirk when he pulls you towards a sleek, grey two-door Audi. "Nice car, Mr. Money Bags," you tease.

 

"It was a high school graduation gift from my parents," Sam tells you, unlocking the doors and opening the passenger side door for you with a smile on his lips. "It was also their way of saying congratulations for getting into the law program here."

 

"Oh, so it was a bride?" You ask him, narrowing your eyes at him in a playful way.

 

"Probably," Sam shrugs, laughing as he adds, "Just get in."

 

Your heart races wildly when Sam climbs in and starts the engine, the loud purr of it revving up sending a thrill up your spine. He lets you fiddle with the radio, and he smiles when you decide on a station that plays nothing but old rock songs. Part of you is pretty sure Sam's not doing the speed limit as he zooms down the highway, weaving around cars and smiling when he sees the flicker of freedom in your eyes. 

 

When Sam pulls into a long, inclined gravel driveway, you're confused. "Are you bringing me into the woods to kill me?" You tease, moving with every bump the tires go over, giving Sam a playful smile when he looks at you and rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. Five minutes later, Sam parks in front of a luxurious cabin that's nestled away deep in the trees. "Where are we?" You ask, completely in awe as you climb out and examine to beautiful structure of it.

 

"My parents bought this place when I moved up here from Texas," he tells you, "It's where they stay when they visit me."

 

"Are you parents mob leaders or something?" You question him, amazed that Sam, who was down to earth and shy at times, had loaded parents—you never would have guessed.

 

"No," Sam laughs, grabbing your hand and tugging you along. "They're just _very_ good lawyers," he smirks.

 

"Ah, so that's why you being a lawyer is so important," you click your tongue, "They want you to follow in their footsteps."

 

"Yeah," Sam shrugs, jingling his keys around until he finds the one that unlocks the cabin's exquisite front double-doors. "Let's not talk about them anymore, this is about us getting away from it all," he says as he turns to you, a sweet smile on his lips. "Pretend this a world made just for us, like there's no one but me and you."

 

"Okay," you nod, swallowing thickly, the overwhelming need to kiss him settling deep in your bones. You feel alive for the first times in months. Sam's touching parts of your soul you thought had died completely, setting you alight in ways you thought no one ever could.

 

The inside of the cabin takes your breath away, the polished wood floors and marble trimming enough to make you feel unworthy of looking at it. Sam gives you a few moments to yourself and lets you take in your surroundings as he places his keys on the hook beside the door, discarding his jacket and carelessly kicking off his shoes.

 

"We have a hot tub," Sam tells you, walking past you towards another set of glass doors, pushing aside the curtains that covered them. You gasp at the scenery you see through the glass, the expanse of mountains off in the distance immediately catching your eye. "Wanna go for a soak?" Sam asks, eyebrows raised in question as he smiles in your direction.

 

"Sam, it's like negative _four_ degrees outside," you joke exaggeratedly, "And even if I wanted to, I . . . I don't have a swimsuit."

 

"So?" He shrugs, "Neither do I."

 

Your eyes widen. "So, we're goin' in _naked_?" You ask him.

 

"Are you wearing underwear?" He questions back seriously.

 

"Well yeah, but—"

 

"Then you won't be naked," Sam grins.

 

"But . . . they're white," you swallow, "My underwear. The water will make them see through." For _Christ's sake_ , you can feel yourself blushing like a virgin.

 

"I won't bite, Y/N," Sam smiles, "We're both adults here, there's nothing to be embarrassed about."

 

You chew on your bottom lip, regarding him for a few moments before rolling your eyes and saying, "Fine, but _only_ because I've never been in a hot tub before." You catch Sam smile widely before he disappears into the kitchen, soon returning with two wine glasses and a chilled bottle of champagne. "Whoa," you chuckle, "You trying to get me drunk?"

 

"I seriously hope it takes more than a glass of champagne to get you sloshed," Sam laughs, opening one of the glass doors and walking out into the cool air. 

 

"I'm not a big drinker," you shrug him as you follow, "So one glass may get me tipsy."

 

"We've _gotta_ work on your alcohol tolerance," he laughs openly, setting the glasses and bottle down on a nearby table before walking towards the hot tub where it's been placed in a wooden structure, stairs wrapping around it the entire perimeter. You watch with amused eyes as Sam lifts the top off the tub and let's it fall to the ground below carelessly, trying to ignore the way the muscles of his arms flex with the movement. Sam doesn't give you warning, he just starts stripping down to his boxers and fires up the bubbles of the steaming tub before you can comprehend any of it. "Are you coming or what?" He smirks, turning to look at you, his sun-kissed skin glistening in the natural light shining down on him.

 

"Yeah," you nod dumbly, grabbing the champagne and glasses off the table he'd placed them on and heading towards him, an apprehensive look in your eyes. You give Sam the things you're holding before kicking off your shoes, shivering when your feet touch to chilly grass beneath you. "That water _better_ be scolding hot," you grumble to Sam, quickly unbuttoning your jeans and pushing them down to your ankles, cursing when a breeze picks that very moment to blow through. Your eyes meet Sam's, who's being polite and not looking down at your nearly fully-naked lower half—at least, not when you're looking right at his face. You tear your shirt over your head and quickly cover your bra-clad chest by crossing your arms, mainly because the cups of your bra are thin and your nipples go hard in the cold air as soon as you subject yourself to it. 

 

"Ladies first," Sam smiles, nodding his head towards the hot tub with a grin on his face.

 

"Whatever," you chuckle and roll your eyes, "You just want to watch my ass moves when I walk up those steps."

 

"Maybe," Sam shrugs nonchalantly, his grin only growing larger when you give him an unamused glare. "Just get in before I _throw you_ in," he threatens playfully.

 

"You wouldn't _dare_ ," you whisper, narrowing your eyes at him.

 

"Try me," he quips. You only grumble some more and make your way up the stairs, looking back over your shoulder and catching him checking you out as you do. "Sorry," he chuckles, "You're the one who put the idea in my head in the first place."

 

"Just get your ass up here, Winchester," you demand as you step into the tub, the heat pulling you in like a beacon. You sigh as you sit down and rest against the tub's edge, making sure to keep your chest under the water so Sam's can't see any of your business through your now-soaked bra—the bubbles from the jets help too. Sam climbs in as you're pulling your hair up into a messy bun, placing the glasses on the side of the tub and popping the cork of the champagne with a strong thumb. "Won't your parents wonder where their champagne went?" You ask him, accepting the half-filled glass he holds out to you.

 

"Nah," he smiles as he pours himself a glass, "They've got tons of the stuff."

 

"Oh, lucky us," you smirk, holding up your glass in cheers before taking a sip. The bubbles tickle your nose and you chuckle to yourself, loving the sweet, smooth glide of it down your throat. You watch Sam finally sit across from you, his legs stretched out in front of him so his feet collide with yours under the water. "You're my savior, you know that?" You smile at him genuinely, running your toes along the back of his ankle.

 

"I wouldn't go that far," Sam blushes, taking a long pull from his glass and averting the sincerity of your eyes.

 

"Okay, maybe not _savior_ . . . but you did save me," you tell him, "A few days ago, I thought I was going to go through the next two years of college alone and as an outcast. Then Michele asks me to join the Art Club ‘cause I've been 'dark recently', and it leads me right to you."

 

"So, then maybe Michele's your savior," Sam laughs lightly, continuing the game of footsie the two of you have going on.

 

"Maybe," you reply in a low voice. "She's the only professor who still treats me like I'm human," you tell him, "She's been really supportive through everything, and she’s been my saving grace really."

 

"Michele's like that," Sam smiles fondly. "She keeps pushing me to change my major to art and focus on my love for photography. She's always telling me my portfolio is far too impressive not to, at least, consider it."

 

"I want to see it," you smile, "Your portfolio."

 

"I . . . I don't know," Sam chuckles nervously, "Michele's the only other person who's seen it, it's something I'm _very_ guarded about."

 

You nod, smiling with understanding as you move gracefully in the water until you're sitting beside him, carefully not to dunk your champagne glass. "Well, I'm sure it's amazing—without even looking at it, I _know_ it is," you tell him in a gentle voice, nudging his arm with yours. You take a beat to think before leaning in to give him a tender kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for today . . . and all the other two days we've shared," you smile at him when he looks at you with those puppy dog eyes that make your heart swell in your chest. You don't know if it's the chill in the air or the champagne pumping through you, but you feel _brazen_. "I know this is going to sound absolutely crazy, and you're probably going to want nothing to do with me after I tell you this but—" you stop to look in his eyes before finishing with, "I think I like you."

 

"You _think_?" Sam whispers with a smile, "Or you _know_?"

 

"I uh—I know I like you, Sam," you reply, a bright red blush spanning from cheek to cheek, and jumping across the bridge of your nose.

 

"Well, that's good," Sam nods, looking down into his champagne glass as he adds, "Because I know I like you, too."

 

"Really?" You gawk, your stomach doing somersaults.

 

"Yeah," Sam chuckles, looking at you with confused eyes. "You seem surprised."

 

"I kind of am," you admit with a small laugh, "I just assumed you'd run as fast you could in the other direction."

 

"Why?" He asks seriously. "Because of what people are saying about you? Because of Professor Lane?"

 

"Yeah," you whisper your answer, unable to meet his eyes as they search for yours.

 

"Y/N, I don't care what people say; they obviously don't know every detail of the situation, and they certainly don't know you as a person," he tells you, gently grasping your chin in his hand and turning your head so he can look in your eyes. "And . . . even though I haven't known you that long, I feel like I've known you all my life. I'd like to think I have a pretty good idea of who you are, and from what I can tell—you're amazing," he says as he gives you a small smile. "I mean it," he assures you when he notices the doubt that flashes across your face. "I know it's probably hard for you to believe, but I want to know everything about you—not your mistakes and not what others tell me about you, I want to figure out all there is to know about you all by myself."

 

"Blue's my favorite color," you tell him in a small voice, unable to think of anything else to say—growing embarrassingly red in the face after you divulge such a useless piece of information.

 

Sam chuckles heartily and rises an amused brow at you. "Well, that's a good start," he smiles.

 

You two stay in the hot tub until your skin prunes like raisins, talking about nothing but you. You tell Sam about your childhood back in North Carolina, about your parents, what you like doing in your free time, how you want to spend your life doing art, and everything you could think of telling him.

 

"My first pet was a goldfish and his name was Walter," you tell him, "He died two days after I got him and I was _devastated_."

 

"Tragic," Sam snickers.

 

"It really was," you agree jokingly, "I _still_ cringe every time I hear a toilet flush."

 

It's getting dark out by the time Sam climbs out and quickly moves towards a basket on the covered back-porch to retrieve two thick, plush towels—you bite back a giggle as you watch the way his sodden boxers cling to his firm backside. You grin widely when he stands at the tub’s edge as he graciously unfolds the towel not wrapped around his waist and holds it up for you. You stand up in the tub, shivering as the growing chill in the air lashes against your wet, naked skin and thanking Sam with a tiny kiss on the tip of his nose as he wraps the towel around you with purposeful hands, not daring a glance at your socked through underwear like a true gentleman.

 

You entangle your hand with his, holding your towel tight to your chest with the other as Sam grabs the champagne bottle with his free hand. You pull him along down the stairs, tugging him back inside the house into the warm both of your bodies needed. "There are some of my old t-shirts upstairs if you want one," Sam tells you, twirling you around by your interlocked hands until you're facing him.

 

"That would be _lovely_ ," you gush dramatically, moving into him and pressing yourself up against him, standing on your toes and kissing his cheek once again. "Lead the way," you tell him in a whisper, smiling when he tugs you along towards the large staircase connected to the kitchen. You giggle as he pulls you up, your feet scrambling to keep up with him as he climbs them quickly.

 

The selections of shirts is massive. "Is your whole wardrobe here or something?" You tease, digging around in the drawers he'd opened for you.

 

"This is just where all my old clothes end up," he shrugs, smiling like a fool when you pick up a powder blue button-up top and hold it up on your index finger, a mischievous smirk tugging at your lips. "That might just look better on you than it did on me," he tells you.

 

"I highly doubt that," you whisper as you step closer to him, letting your towel fall to the floor with a careless tug. You don't miss the way Sam's eyes try to stay on your face, trying to hold steady on yours until the need to know at you look like wins. His eyes slide down your body like a gentle caress, his pupils blowing wide when he sees the way your nipples are hardened and poking through the damp material hugging the curves of your breasts. He meets yours eyes as you reach back to pop the clasp, his hands coming up slowly to help you pull the straps across your shoulders and down your arms, his gaze staying on yours as the material falls between the two of you. "Oops," you shrug, a playful smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

 

"You know exactly what you're doing, Y/N," Sam says in a low voice, a teasing glint shining in his darkened eyes.

 

"Do I, Sam?" You question, batting your eyelashes innocently, your fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them down without a second's thought. "I'm just getting dressed like you wanted me to," you tell him in a playful matter-of-fact tone, reaching over to pick up the button-up once again, sliding your arms through it and slowly, teasingly buttoning it up starting at the bottom. You examine the way Sam's eyes watch as you tantalizingly cover yourself back up, leaving the top button undone and letting the sleeves covers your hands in the cutest way. The bottom falls just under your ass almost mid-thigh, leaving _very_ little to the imagination. "Isn't this what you wanted, Sam?" You ask him, pressing up against him, reaching between your bodies to pull away his towel as well, leaving him a worn pair of damp boxers.

 

"Yeah," he nods and swallows before adding, "It's what I wanted."

 

"You should get dressed too," you tell him, pushing yourself up on your tippy toes and brushing your lips against his in just the slightest way. "I wouldn't want for either of us to go and get the wrong idea," you smirk, pulling back away from him completely and bringing the towel with you, looking down at where his cock is trapped in sodden material that clings to him like paper on a rain-drenched window. You turn your back to him, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you walk back out of the room and down the stairs to the living room, making sure to sway your hips for his viewing pleasure.

 

You sit on the couch with your legs crossed, pulling your hair from its confines and running a hand through it, tossing it around messily and giggling like a girl crazed. Sam comes down a few minutes later, dressed in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama bottoms—seriously— _nothing_ but the bottoms, you can tell by just _looking_ at him. You watch with amused eyes as he walks towards the entrainment center and pushes the power button the stereo, giving you a playful smile over his shoulder before turning to mess with the channels, ultimately settling on a station that was playing an acoustic version of an old-timey love song.

 

"Dance with me," Sam turns to face you again, smiling charmingly as he holds out a hand to you. You oblige, standing to your feet and making you way over to him where he's moved to the center of the living room, placing your hand in his once you reach him and sighing as he wraps his free arm around you so his other hand is placed on your lower back, pulling you tight against him. You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, pressing the side of your face against his warm chest, smiling to yourself when he props his chin against the top of your head, guiding you a swaying movement that has you relaxed in a matter of minutes.

 

"No one's ever dance with me like this before," you tell him in a whisper, pulling your head away from his chest to look up at him, his eyes calm and still a bit darkened from earlier.

 

"Well, there's a first time for everything," he says back in a quiet voice meant just for you. You heartbeat picks up quickly when he leans down to brush his lips against yours like you had done to him back in his bedroom.

 

"Sam," you breathe out against his lips, almost as a warning, telling him in one word that if he kisses you—you won't want to stop. He doesn't seem to mind, because he presses his mouth into yours more firmly, sealing your lips with his completely. He moves slowly, barely parting his lips as he kisses you like you're a fragile piece of glass, still swaying against you in time with the gentle music that's still thrumming around in the air around you. You reciprocate the kiss, humming in approval as he presses both hands on your lower back just above your ass to pull you as close to him as possible.

 

The kiss quickly escalates and before long, your hands are sliding up into Sam's hair as he coaxes your lips apart with his tongue, moaning into your mouth as he slides it in along yours. You gasp into the kiss as he hands travel down to ghost over your ass, slowly being unveiled as the button-up rides up. You swirl your tongue around Sam's in a quick flick, your moans muffled when Sam's gives your ass a firm squeeze, his hands strong and powerful as he rocks you up against him. You can feel his cock hardening against your belly, the flesh just begging to be related from its confines.

 

"I want you, Sam," you tell him after you pull away, your voice breathy and light. 

 

"We . . . We don't have to—" he tries to say.

 

"I _want_ to," you whisper, nodding as you add, "I trust you."

 

Sam can feel his chest grow tight after you say it, his head moving in a nod as well. He pulls away and grabs your hand in his, guiding you back up the stairs, leading you to a different room than the one you had been in earlier. It's the master bedroom, you can tell that right away when you enter. You can feel a blush crawling up your chest when Sam turns to face you, grabbing your hips as he smiles down at you, pulling you along with him as he walks backwards. You tumble over on top him when he falls back onto the king size bed once the back of his legs touch the edge of it, a giggle pushing past your lips as you slither up his body to press your mouth into his.

 

You moan as you pull your knees up so you're straddling his lap, your naked cunt rubbing up against his cock through his thin bottoms. You both gasp into the kiss at the feeling, your hands holding onto each other as you rock your hips down into his. Sam breathes your name into your mouth, his hands sliding over your ass to help guide you over his concealed cock, his hips lifting to meet yours in the most blissful way.

 

You gasp out in surprise when Sam quickly flips you over, his mouth fitting against your jawline as he grinds down against you a little rougher, his control slipping with every upward stroke of his hips. You whine breathlessly as he starts unbuttoning the shirt he'd leant you, his lips brushing along every new portion of exposed skin until he reaches the last button, just above your smooth mound. You moan as he grabs the lose flaps and pulls them apart, the last button popping off from the force and leaving the front of your body completely bare. You card your fingers through his hair as he pulls himself back up far enough to roll his tongue around one of your budded nipples, leaving you breathless as you let your head fall back. "Sam," you sigh as he brings his hands up to cup the bottom swells of your breasts, his mouth moving over to the other nipple to give it same tongue-filled affection with firm strokes and slow swirls.

 

His eyes open to look up into yours as he moves his hands around to press them against your back, pulling them up so you're arched as he presses sweet kisses along the center of your body, moving lower and lower until he's trailing the tip of his tongue along your lower belly, just above where you want his mouth to be. You spread your legs for him, gasping as he travels even more south to run his tongue through your slick folds in a sluggish manner, tasting you for the first time. He moans into your tender flesh, his eyes fluttering shut as he swirls his tongue around your clit, giving you what you wanted. 

 

You'd only been eaten out once before, and the guy who had done it couldn't even be compared to Sam in the slightest—not with the way Sam's tongue is lapping at you like you're the fresh stream of water he'd been yearning for after traveling through the Sahara. He has you crying out for him, has your hands gripping tightly at the luxurious bedspread beneath you, and has your thighs trembling where they lie open for him. You nearly lose it when he slides a finger up inside you in such a torturous way, that you're shaking at the sensation overload. "Oh, _Sam_ ," you moan, flexing your hips and arching your back as you writhe in pleasure. He gives you another finger in reply, pushing it in alongside the first one and finding a steady pump as he sucks at your clit lavishly. 

 

You come with a long, breathy moan, your toes curling into the balls of your feet and your chest heaving as try to find your breathing. You feel like you're floating, only to crash back down as Sam sucks and finger-fucks you through it, his own sounds of pleasure vibrating through you. You're trembling when your high subsides and lowers to a dull throb between your thighs, your eyes shut and your lips parted as you pant. You gasp as Sam pulls his fingers free and slides them between his lips, sucking and licking at the digits like they're covered in sweet liquid gold, his hungry eyes meeting your heavily-lidded ones as he does.

 

Sam moves away from you to reach into the bedside table, pulling out a condom before pushing the plaid bottoms down his legs, his naked, hard cock finally revealed to your eyes. The head of it is a deep red in color and is oozing precome, the sight mouth-watering in your opinion. You bite your bottom lip as you watch Sam kneel on the bed, easily tearing the foil wrapper open and easing the slick latex down over his length, giving himself a few firm strokes after. You moan as you eye the way his hand glides over his hardened flesh, rolling your hips in wanton fashion as Sam's eyes meet yours. You smirk like a minx as you trail a light hand down the length of your torso, gasping when your cool fingers brush against your swollen clit. 

 

Sam curses under his breath as he watches you play with yourself, slowly inching his way over to you on his knees, cock in hand and a playful grin on his lips. He presses his free hand into the mattress beside your head once he's crawled over your body, his eyes dark and hungry as they look down into yours. "Please, Sam," you moan, trapping your clit between two of your fingers and squeezing roughly, your hips jerking in response. Sam bites at his bottom lip as he lowers his hips, trailing the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your awaiting hole in a cruel way.

 

His eyes stay locked on yours as he pushes into you, watching the way your lips part in surprise and your eyebrows knit together, creasing your forehead as you release a series of breathy, whiney moans. "Fuck," he breathes out as your wet heat envelopes him, his hand releasing his cock so he can sink into you completely. He presses into the mattress on the opposite side of your head, stilling his hips to give you time to adjust to his size.

 

You've never felt so full before—Sam's the biggest you'd ever had and you can feel yourself being stretched in a different way, a way that burns so good and makes you gasp for more. The first thrust Sam gives you punches the air from your lungs, his long, lean body aiding him in moving on in a smooth, precise way. You whimper his name, loving the heaviness of him inside you for the first time, the thickness of his cock stretching you ways you'd never experienced before. Your hands grasp at his back, your back arching as you press your chest up against his, your nipples brushing against the sculpted, muscular flesh of his pecs.

 

"God, Sam, _please_ . . . harder," you mewl, wrapping a leg around his waist and pressing the heel of your foot into his lower back, pulling your hips up, causing him to sink deeper inside you. Sam moans gutturally at the force and feeling of it, pulling his hips back and giving into your plea, thrusting forward a bit harsher. "Fuck me," you nearly sob, tossing your head back, your moans growing in octave as Sam begins pounding into you much quicker than before. You feel him press his open mouth against your throat, growling and husking out in pleasure he gives you what you want, what you begged him for so sweetly.

 

No one's ever treated your body so good before, never given you everything you had ever wanted in just one session. Your body is burning with the intensity of it all, your eyes nearly crossing in pleasure as Sam fucks you down into the mattress beneath your writhing bodies. You run your hands up his slick back until you're fisting at his hair tightly, screaming and moaning for him as he carries you to new levels of pleasures, ones you've only heard about from girlfriends—well, when you had them of course.

 

"I'm . . . I'm not gonna last much longer," Sam warns you in a raspy voice, mouthing and panting into the crook of your neck. You moan in agreement, relinquishing one hand from his hair and sliding it between your sweat-slick bodies, quickly pressing the pads two fingertips against your clit to help get yourself there with Sam. You come a few seconds later, the slick slide of Sam inside you and the firm pressure on your clit making it easy. You gasp and plead with Sam to come too, whimpering in his ear until he trembles and cries into your shoulder, his teething sinking in as he fills the condom to the brim, his hips stuttering and falling down flush against yours as he drowns in pleasure.

 

The weight of Sam on top of you is heavy, but it's good. You feel safe tucked under him, cradling his head in your hands as you both try to catch your breath. His lips are soft and tender as they move against yours, post-coital laziness and exhaustion evident in the interaction—but you're okay with it.

 

* * *

 

"You _slept_ with her!" Robby shouts, knowing all too well what 'the afterglow' looks like. Sam was practically a damn neon sign when he walked into their dorm room with a goofy ass grin on his face and a newfound pep in his step.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam plays dumb, stilling smiling like a fool as he plops down in his desk chair, firing up his laptop and humming a random tune.

 

"Oh, puh- _lease_ ," Robby narrows his eyes, jumping down from his bed and walking to stand by Sam's desk with his arms crossed over his chest. "You've been gone since _yesterday_ , and then you waltz your goofy ass in here with that _dumb_ smile on your face—I _know_ that smile, Sam, I've smiled that smile more times than I care to count!"

 

"That's because you're a pig who sleeps with anything with a pulse that wears lipstick," Sam chuckles, shaking his head and still not divulging any information—because he doesn't want to, it's none of Robby's business.

 

"Come on, man, _spill_!" Robby pleads, clasping his hands together like a kid begging for candy. 

 

"Why?" Sam scoffs, turning towards Robby with a guarded glare. "So you can start a rumor of your own?"

 

Robby gasps, holding his chest with one hand and holding the other up in defense. "First of all, I am _shocked_ that you would even assume somethin' like that," Robby tells Sam seriously, "And second of all, I wouldn't do that to you . . . or her. It's obvious that you really like her, man, I wouldn't even think of hurting you like that."

 

Sam regards Robby for a minute, his eyes narrowed as he examines his friend's face, looking for any traces of insincerity and finding none. "Fine," Sam sighs. " _Yes_ , I slept with her, and _no_ , I'm not giving you any details."

 

"The fuck?!" Robby squalls. "You can't just admit to sleeping with a hot chick and _not_ give your best friend the deets, that's cruel on so many levels!"

 

"It's personal, Rob," Sam tells him, "It was a moment meant for just me and her, not the entire world."

 

Robby scoffs, "I tell you all about the girls I sleep with."

 

"Yeah," Sam rolls his eyes, "Even _after_ I ask you not to."

 

"Whatever, dude," Robby pouts childishly, "We're totally not boys anymore—as a matter of fact; I don't even _like_ you."

 

"Okay, Rob," Sam chuckles.

 

* * *

 

"I have an idea for our piece for the art show," you tell Sam on Wednesday when you meet in the library. "It's something super personal to me and I don't know if you're gonna agree to it—"

 

"No idea is a dumb one," Sam smiles down at you reassuringly, running his hand up and down your arms in a soothing rub. "Especially if it's coming from you," he adds, placing a sweet kiss on the tip of your nose and pulling back with a grin.

 

You sigh before telling him all about the idea that's been building itself up in your head since last night. Your voice shakes as you give him the details, watching his face for his reaction with every word you speak.

 

"Are you sure that's what you want to do, Y/N?" Sam asks you in a soft voice once you've finished. "That's a _very_ big deal," he tells you with concerned eyes, "Are you sure you want that to be displayed for the whole campus to see?"

 

"I'm sure," you tell him confidently, "I don't want to hide away anymore, Sam. I'm tired of living my life in fear of what people are saying about me, I want to show them that their words hurt and that they affect."

 

Sam nods and gives you a small smile. "I'm in, if this is what you really want."

 

"It is."

 

You and Sam get to work right away, aware there are only two weeks left until the deadline for submissions. Sam grabs paints of various colors from the supply closet attached to the private backroom, along with brushes of different barrel sizes and a cup of water. He locks the main door as you strip your upper body bare, screwing off the cap to the red paint and mixing it with a dry, wide-barreled brush. You pull you hair up into a ponytail as Sam moves to stand in front you, red paint ready to go.

 

The paint is cold against the skin of your neck where Sam starts, brushing it on in clean strokes with the flick of his wrist. "Jesus," you laugh, visibly shivering when Sam runs the red-drenched brush over your breast and across your nipple, the bristles soft and wet. He only smiles in reply and continues to cover the upper half of your body in red, leaving no flesh untouched from the waist up and just under your chin where your neck begins—not even your hands and all ten fingers.

 

You watch him turn around and grab the black paint, twisting off the cap and grabbing a slimmer, more precise brush. You smile reassuringly and give him a nod when he turns towards you with a nervous expression etched across his face, obviously perturbed with the fact that he's about to paint big, bold, vulgar, and degrading names across your now-red flesh. You hold back a giggle as he starts above your breasts at the flattest portion of your chest, the thinner brush ticking your skin as he starts painting a large black **_W_** as far left as your chest allows, followed by a similar **_H_** , **_O_** , **_R_** , and finally **_E_**. The word spreads across your body boldly, and you can't help but feel a little unsettled by it—but you know it's what you need to do for yourself.

 

Sam doesn't stop until your skin is littered with black words, with the names you've heard yourself being called time and time again. _Slut, skank, whore, tramp, floozy, nympho, sexual deviant, broken, trash, psychotic—_ anything you could think of really. They were all over, varied in size and repeated until they filled in the spaces where there was dried red paint. It took hours for Sam to do it, his hand steady as he painted the words, his eye sliding up to meet yours every now and again as he gives you a small smile.

 

As the paint dries, Sam sets his camera up on its tripod, checking the lighting in the lens after he positions you against one of the backroom's plain white walls. He decides to grab a ring light from the supply closet, setting it up just beside the camera and turning it on. "Perfect," Sam says as he looks through the lens of his camera. "Ready when you are," he tells you.

 

You nod, bring your hands up to cover your breasts, even though they're so covered with paint, no would even notice your nipples—you don't chance it though, pressing your palms against your breasts and sighing out heavily to relax yourself. "We'll do one with you looking into the camera and another with you looking down, then we'll decided which looks better," Sam tells you, moving towards you, placing his fingers under your chin to position your head so your eyes are level with the camera lens. The camera is soon snapping, Sam behind it, capturing you in your most vulnerable form.

 

When you're done, you start working on Sam, smiling as you watch him pull his shirts off and letting your eyes travel up and down his naked upper body. You grab the blue paint and a new brush, starting at his neck like he had with you, covering his smooth skin in cool paint. Once he's fully covered and looking a bit like Papa Smurf, you start painting words across his skin with white paint. _Protector, caring, passionate, heartwarming, hero, true, loving—_ and every other word you would use to describe Sam, you swiped into his blue flesh, over and over again until his upper body is covered in them.

 

Sam sets the timer on the camera after the paint is finished drying, smiling widely as he grabs your hand and pulls you against him in front of it, your chest flush with his, red skin pressed against blue skin, black words intermingling with white ones as you wrap your arms around each other and press your foreheads together, nuzzling your nose along one another's as you breath in the scent of skin and paint, letting your eyes flutter shut. The camera snaps a few times a few seconds later, capturing the moment.

 

The third and final picture would ultimately be your favorite. You laugh as you and Sam paint over each other with deep purple paint, covering up the blue, red, white, and black until it's no longer visible. You press yourself up against him again once he's reset the timer on the camera, placing your hands on his sides while he wraps his around your hips as you stand in place. You lean up on your toes as he leans down, pressing your lips against his in a sweet, close-lipped kiss just as the camera snaps. 

 

You two end up having sex right there on the table in the center of the room, on top of the art books that are scattered across the polished surface, open to random pages. It's ridiculous really, because the upper halves of your bodies are coated in thick coats of dried over paint that are starting to crack as you writhe against each other, moaning and gasping and calling out one another's name until you've both toppled over the precipice one after the other. It's honestly too hot for words if you were being completely honest with yourself—even if it _did_ take nearly an hour to scrub all the paint off your body later on in the shower.

 

Sam takes the next day to edit the pictures and give them a good once over in Photoshop, making them as clear as possible and as perfect as you and he both want them to be. He smiles the entire time he's doing it, so beyond excited to show Michele your work. He prints the three final copies onto a special paper that's glossed over and professional looking, placing them in a folder and texting you to meet him in Michele's office.

 

_I'm nervous :(_

 

**_Don't be :)_ **

 

* * *

 

"Oh," Michele gasps, her eyes scanning over the pictures as she sits behind her desk, opposite of where you and Sam are sitting in two highly uncomfortable wooden chairs, nervously tapping your feet or chewing your nails.

 

"You hate them, right?" You ask her, completely anguished and on the edge of your seat. "Oh _God_ , I knew you were gonna hate them," you sigh, quickly glaring at Sam when you hear him chuckle amusedly in response.

 

"Y/N," Michele says in a gentle voice, "These pictures . . . they're—"

 

"Terrible?" You finish for her, ready to die of embarrassment.

 

"Breathtaking," she says instead.

 

"I know, they're horri—" you start to say before her descriptive adjective registers in your mind. "Wait . . . _what_?" You question, eyes wide in shock.

 

"I think these pictures are breathtaking," Michele reiterates. "Yes, they _were_ a little unexpected, given that you and Sam only met a little over a week ago . . . but they're _beautiful_." She smiles as she adds, "They tell a story, one that's heartbreaking in the beginning but renewed by the end. I know this is very, very personal for you, Y/N, and I admire the initiative and creativity you and Sam took with these. It's not just painted skin and pictures, it's a look into your souls, souls that have been bound together by unexpected and unexplainable odds."

 

You can't stop the tears that trail down your cheeks, biting at your bottom lip to hold back the scream of relief that threatens to come tumbling out of your mouth. "Oh, thank _God_!" Sam shouts, making you jump and give him a small chuckle, realizing then how nervous he must have been but tried to hide it and put on a brave face for you.

 

"So, are you putting them in the art show?" You ask Michele, grabbing Sam's hand and lacing your fingers through the gaps between his.

 

"I'll do you one better," Michele smiles, "This is going to be the main piece of the exhibit." Her eyes are bright and warm. "I'll get these blown up and put onto large canvases," she tells you, "I want _everyone_ to see these!"

 

* * *

 

 

Opening night of the art show has you turned into a nervous wreck, pacing in your dorm room as Sam watches from your bed with amused eyes. "How can you be so _calm_?" You ask him, throwing your hands out in the air.

 

"Because I know our piece is going to be a _hit_ ," he tells you, as if what he's saying is a well-known fact instead of his general opinion. "Now hurry up and finish getting ready so we can head to the Art Center," he smiles, pulling himself up into a sitting position and adjusting the deep purple tie he's wearing—which is accompanied by a crisp white button-up dress shirt that's tucked into a pair of tight grey slacks. "Michele wants us there early to make sure everything is right," he tells you, jumping up from your bed and giving you a sweet kiss.

 

You strip out of the clothes you're wearing and pull on a knee length dress that's the same deep purple as Sam's tie, looking at yourself in the mirror as he comes up behind you and zips you up. He runs his fingers down the lace sleeves, smiling at your reflection in the mirror, winking when you return it. You'd already done your hair and makeup a few hours earlier, so now, all that was left were your shoes. "Let me," Sam says, taking the blacks pumps from your hands and motioning for you to sit down on the bed. You obey, plopping down on your mattress propped up on your hands and smiling as Sam kneels before you on the floor, grabbing one of your bare feet and gently sliding it into one of the heels and buckling the thin ankle strap attached to it, kissing up your smooth leg before putting the other shoe on.

 

"We don't have to be there _super_ early," Sam mumbles against your upper thigh where your dress has ridden up a bit. You chuckle lightly as he smiles up at you, his hands wrapping around the back of your knees and spreading your thighs. You bite your bottom lip as he hooks one knee over his shoulder and pushes the other down on the bed, hiking your dress up until your lace panties are on display for him. "You look absolutely stunning tonight," he husks before leaning in and pressing his tongue against your clit through the thin material.

 

"Sam," you breathe, bringing a hand up to riffle your fingers through his hair as he presses into you, wetting your panties warmly. You let your head lull back when he pushes them to the side and slides his tongue up through your folds, humming against you like he always does when he tastes you. It doesn't take Sam long to make you come, sucking on your clit and two fingers deep in your soaked pussy. You let go moaning his name, fisting his hair, and shaking with pleasure.

 

"Ready to go?" Sam asks with a smile after you've returned back to earth. He grabs a tissue from your bedside table and wipes down his lips and chin, and you can't help but giggle because it looks like he's just got done eating a fancy meal or something.

 

"Ready as I'll ever be," you tell him, standing to your feet, legs a bit wobbly, and smoothing out your pretty dress. You smile as he holds your coat up for you, a long black pea coat that looks phenomenal with the dress. He helps you into it before putting on his suit coat, giving you a wink as he does. "You look pretty stunning yourself," you tell him with a smirk, accepting the hand he holds out for you once he's done.

 

"Not as stunning as you," he whispers before giving you a sweet kiss, guiding you out of the room and down the dormitory halls. 

 

You're nervous all over again as you grow closer and closer to the Art Center, the chill in the night air make you shiver and huddle closer to Sam. Everyone on campus is dressed up tonight—well, those who aren't back in their dorm rooms eating Ramen noodles and not caring any less about the art show. Various groups of people are standing in front of the Art Center when you and Sam make it, chattering and waiting to be let inside. You can feel a large number of eyes on you as you cling to Sam's arm like a kitten in a tree. You can hear the whispers, but no one laughs this time—not after just _seeing_ the title of your piece in the art show programme, right under the title **_TONIGHT'S CENTER PIECE_**.

 

Sam holds the door open for you, guiding you through with a soothing hand on your lower back. He glares at a group of guys snickering to each other and whispering suggestive remarks when you're not looking, and he chuckles to himself when they clear their throats and pretend to straighten their cliché, frat-guy bow ties. 

 

"Wonderful!" Michele greets the two of you once she sees you, clapping her hands and smiling brightly. "You two make such a _dashing_ couple," she gushes, grabbing one of your hands and one of Sam's as she adds, "Are you two ready to be the center of attention?"

 

You turn your head to smile at Sam, who's already smiling back. "We're ready," you tell Michele, looking back at her and nodding. She gives you both a hug and one last smile before leading you into the large viewing room, where various unseen pieces are hung up on the bright white walls. 

 

But, right there in the center of the room on its own respective wall, the three pictures of you and Sam are hung up side by side, printed onto much larger canvases than the copies you had submitted to Michele nearly a month ago. The sight of them takes your breath away, the uncontrollable emotion bubbling up in your throat as you look at them one by one. The first, the picture of you by yourself, covered in red with your eyes closed and a small frown on your lips, littered with black words that have been used to describe you over the past few months by those who don't know you. The second, a blue Sam holding a broken red you, his white words bleeding with your black ones, your noses touching and your foreheads pressed together, eyes closed as you just breathe each other in. And the third, your favorite, you're both just purple, no words on your skin, just you and Sam blending as one as your lips mold against each other's in the still life.

 

"Y/N?" You hear Sam whisper as he stands by your side, running a hand up and down your back. You turn to him with tears in your eyes, quickly closing the gap between the two of you and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. You hear Sam chuckle lightly as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he can. You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent and sighing contently as a few tears roll down your cheeks. "It's a beautiful story," he whispers in your ear, placing a hand on the back of your head to smooth down your hair. "It's _our_ story," he adds in a shaky voice, turning his head to kiss your cheek.

 

"I love you," you say before thinking, pulling away and looking up into his eyes. "Oh god," you croak, suddenly embarrassed as you ask, "Is it too early to say that? _Shit_ , it is, I'm such an idiot."

 

"No," Sam grins madly, bringing his hands up to cradle your face in his hands before you can look away from him. "Those words could _never_ be too early . . . not coming from you," he assures you in a small voice, his eyes growing a bit shinier. You nod slowly, breathing out in relief as he leans in and presses his lips into yours for a slow, sweet kiss that makes even more emotion gather up in your throat. 

 

"Okay, okay, that's enough!" You hear Michele cry from behind you. "I'm already a mess, the last thing I need is for you two to go and make me ruin my mascara," she says, causing you and Sam to pull away from each other and chuckle, shaking your heads before tearing apart reluctantly. You both watch as Michele pulls the curtains on your piece, covering it up until she's ready to unveil it. 

 

Once people start piling into the Art Center, you're holding tight to Sam's hand, a dumb smile on your face as he looks down at you and smirks. You accept the glass of champagne a random waiter offers you smirking, because all you can think about is that night at Sam's parents’ cabin a month ago—undoubtedly one of the best night of your entire life.

 

Nearly an hour into the show, Michele's voice booms through the viewing gallery as she speaks into a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please gather around the center wall," she instructs, "Tonight's main piece is just moments from being unveiled!" 

 

Sam pushes through the crowd, his hand tightly clasp around yours as he guides you between bodies and chatter. When you meet up with Michele at the center wall on a small platform, both you and Sam are close to passing out, both excited and nervous and nauseous all at the same time. People are crowded around, eyes on the curtain hiding the piece and looking at you and Sam as they sip their wine and whisper to each other.

 

"Welcome to our annual art show!" Michele starts speaking, the people going quiet immediately to listen. "Many, many years ago, I graduated from this very college with a degree in art. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my life or what career I would end up having, but I can tell you one thing; becoming an art professor has been one of the most rewarding and most precious things I've ever done in my life," she says, giving you and Sam a quick smile before continuing, "Over the last twenty years, I've met many students. I've loved some, I've hated some, and some have changed my life." She wipes away a tear, chuckling. "Tonight, it is my honor to present a piece that I adore with all my heart," she smiles, "The muse you see in this piece is someone I've come to treasure; she's one of the strongest, most beautiful women I've had to pleasure of teaching."

 

Michele turns toward you long enough to give you one of her famous grins, one you return with watery eyes. "Despite the negative, _heartbreaking_ odds, this young lady has pushed through and has decided to use the circumstances given to her, and has transformed them into a piece of art I believe to be one of my absolute favorites," she says with a shaky voice, "And her partner in this piece, Sam, is another one of my most promising students. With his love of photography, he managed to capture three of the most breathtaking pictures, and I hope you all enjoy them as much as I do. I hope you enjoy their story, a story of heartbreak and renewal, a story for the times." 

 

You hold your breath as Michele grabs the rope that pulls the curtains apart, tightening your hand around Sam's as you grow anxious. "I give you . . . ' _Where Words Hurt, Love Heals'_ ," Michele smiles as she introduces the title, tugging on the rope just as you close your eyes. You hear gasps, but no one speaks. The room is dead silent, the only sound you hear is your heart beating wildly in your chest. When you gather up the courage to open your eyes, you're met by a quiet crowd, their eyes scanning across the pictures, reading the words painted onto your red flesh, examining the way a blue and white Sam holds you in the second and kisses you so tenderly in the third as you stand purple and as one.

 

When a round of applause erupts a few minutes later, there's no way of stopping the tears that spill down your cheeks or the shaky smile that your lips cradle. You look over at Sam, who's already looking over at you with pride and admiration in his eyes, a prize winning grin on his face. You give his hand a firm squeeze before looking back at the crowd, meeting the eyes of the people, some of who look at you with guilt heavy in their gaze—because they know they were guilty of using the words they see painted on your skin in the first and second picture. Some of them can't seem to look at you, shame and embarrassment evident in their cheeks, feeling the way you had for months. Pride flames up inside you, knowing that the point of your piece had been received by many in the crowd. 

 

When you spot Professor Lane amongst the sea of people, you don't give him the satisfaction. He looks like a man haunted by guilt, his mouth turned down into a sad line, his green eyes locked on the first picture that's just of you. Sam moves to stand in front of you, placing a finger under your chin and tilting your head up to press a kiss to your lips. "I love you too, by the way," he whispers when he pulls back. Your smile grows as you look up into his eyes, warm and safe and shining in the light. It's everything you'd ever wanted.

 

Later on, as you and Sam are accepting handshakes and _job well done's_ , Robby comes bouncing up. "Dude!" He greets Sam, pulling him into a tight "bro hug" before punching him in the arm like buddies do.

 

"Y/N, this is Rob; my roommate," Sam tells you.

 

"Fuck _that_ , call me Robby," Robby says to you with a smile, quickly grabbing your hand and placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. You chuckle when he winks at you. "Sam's been talking about you nonstop since the first time you met, talks about how you're best thing to ever happen to him," he tells you as he releases your hand, "Kinda makes me sick, if I'm bein' honest."

 

"Rob," Sam groans, totally not in the mood for his best friend's antics.

 

"It's nice to meet you, Robby," you smile at him, "Sam tells me you're _quite_ the comical genius."

 

"Eh," he shrugs in reply, "I like makin' people laugh. Kinda wish I had gone to comedian school, but my parents sent me to this snooze bucket!" You and Sam share a laugh, shaking your heads. "I really enjoyed the art," Robby tells you in a more serious tone, "I think it got a lot of people thinkin'."

 

"I sure hope so." You give him a kind smile, accepting the hug he offers before bidding him farewell. "I think I like him," you tell Sam.

 

"You'll change your mind, trust me," Sam jokes playfully, wrapping an arm around your waist. "I know this is sort of our night and all," he starts, running a hand up your arm gently as he stands in front of you, "But why don't we get out of here? I want to take you somewhere . . . away from here." 

 

You smile like a fool, because you know exactly where he plans to take you. "Yes," you nod, "I can't think of anything that sounds better." You grab his hand, tugging him along and out of the Art Center, giggling as you quickly guide him to the parking lot where his car is parked. The ride you take is familiar, one that soothes you until you pull up to the cabin hidden away in the woods.

 

Sam's lip don't leave yours until you're falling onto the bed in the master bedroom, hands moving to undo zippers and release buttons, pulling open fabric and pushing down material until you're both bare as the days you were born—except for your pumps—because Sam begs you to keep them on. You do, breathing out a moan as he spreads your thighs and buries his cock deep inside you with one slick push, his cheek pressed against yours as he groans deeply in your ear.

 

You change positions throughout the night; on your back with Sam between your legs, you on top riding Sam with smooth rolls of your hips, on your knees with the side of your face pressed down into the mattress as Sam presses his chest against your back. The moans, gasps, groans, and whimpers are plentiful, hands roaming and gripping, holding and splaying. You lose count of how many times you come, so lost in what Sam's giving you to care—or even try. He whispers _I love you_ ; in your ear, against your lips, into the skin of your inner thigh, against your hip bones, across your lower belly, into the dip of your throat, along your spine, into the dimples of your lower back just above your ass, _everywhere_.

 

And you say it back every time.

**Author's Note:**

> I cried so much writing this, y'all. It's honestly one of the works I'm most proud of.


End file.
